


Whispering in the rain

by jperalta



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood, Depression, Dissociation, Food Issues, Hallucinations, Nausea, Panic Attacks, Razors, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:48:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jperalta/pseuds/jperalta
Summary: Malcolm tries to cope with being unable to work and begins to be depressed.He shows up from out of the rain at the NYPD, where everyone struggles to think of what they can do for him, and he remains stuck inside of his own head.Dani tries to help as much as she can.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell
Comments: 11
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

Malcolm was lying on his bed. The chains were off, because he hadn’t managed to sleep in days. There was no point in even trying. Scenes from the basement played over and over again. His father’s face flashed in his mind. He felt the knife in his body again. The vast apartment felt so incredibly barren. He felt so alone - alone except for the men in his head tormenting him. _“Your dad was going to kill you...”_ He noticed his shaking hands, his perpetually shaking hands. Rain was pouring outside, though he couldn’t see it since the curtains had been shut tight since at least four nights ago - or maybe it was five, he couldn’t remember anymore. He needed a refill on his as-needed anti-anxiety medication, but he had taken too many in too few days and now he needed to wait at least a week until his insurance would cover it again. Of course he knew he could probably ask his mother for anything that required a prescription, but the idea of doing that, of hearing the worry in her voice after he did, made his stomach upset. The pills hardly worked anyway. He was doing all he was supposed to - taking time off of work, going to therapy twice a week or calling her when he couldn’t get himself out of bed, taking his daily medication and others as needed - but he didn’t feel like anything was making any bit of a difference. He couldn’t be fixed. He felt broken beyond repair and so hopelessly alone. The rain sounded like static, like it was mimicking the sounds in his brain. In the rain he could hear whispers, his father telling him he was disposable, Watkins laughing. It seemed like their smiles were etched into the ceiling. He shook his head and flung himself into an upright position, staring at the dark curtains. He pulled one side of them back, and the soft gray light let itself into his room. The people walking around outside with their raincoats and their umbrellas seemed so abhorrently normal, and he felt jealous of every single one of them, peering down at them in the bathrobe he hadn’t changed out of all week. Large drops of water splattered against the glass. The static filled his head. The knife in his side felt more real than ever before. He had to get out of there.  
  
He threw a coat on over his bathrobe, slid his feet into whatever he could find first, and burst out of the apartment into the storm. He knew he probably looked crazy - a man who clearly hadn’t shaved in at least a week, his hair sticking up all over the place, walking through the rain wearing sandals, a bathrobe, and an unzipped khaki jacket. People eyed him, knowing he must be out of it, and they weren’t wrong. The people stared and he reminded himself they were right in doing so. He must be insane, and everyone knew. He felt everything begin to blur as he wondered through the streets.  
  
Instinctively, he had navigated himself to the NYPD, despite hardly remembering the walk there. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be there, that he was supposed to be home, “resting,” but he had come to hate that term so much, since rest didn’t seem possible for him. So as he came in from the cold rain, feet nearly frozen, limbs shaking, coat and robe dripping wet, it shouldn’t have come as any surprise to him if everyone had rushed towards him as if he were some random victim of something coming in from off the street. And maybe they weren't entirely wrong either.  
  
Dani hardly recognized him at first, but when she saw his eyes and how hard he was shaking, she knew it must have been Malcolm. She went over to him and put her hands on his shoulders. He flinched slightly at the touch. “Malcolm, what...” But she wasn’t sure what she was asking. She wasn’t sure he could even hear her. She rubbed her hand on his arm softly. “Hey...” She caught his eyes, and they were so glossy she wanted to wrap her arms around him and never let him go. A heaviness formed in her throat and as tenderly as she could manage she said, “you’re not supposed to work.”  
  
He looked down at his feet and opened his mouth to speak a few times but found everything felt dry. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had drank a decent amount of water in a day. Everything had been spinning together. His stomach was twisting around inside of him and he wanted to collapse. Dani steadied him and he looked at her again. He knew he shouldn’t be there. He knew he was on probation, or whatever it was called. But his home seemed to be haunting him lately. He couldn’t explain how loud the static had felt, what he had seen every time he closed his eyes or opened them again. The fridge wasn’t empty but it wasn’t filled with anything particularly edible at this point - just moldy leftovers brought to him by the people who cared the most. Dani’s voice echoed into his ears again, _you’re not supposed to work_. He tugged one side of his soaking wet coat across his chest, and felt his heart thumping away, serving as proof that he was supposedly at least still alive. Dani seemed blurry to him but he knew she was there. “I can’t be alone,” he finally said with a raspy voice.  
  
Dani looked back at Gil as if to ask what she should do. She felt so helpless. Gil gestured his head towards a spare room, and Dani took Malcolm’s arm before leading him past everyone else, small puddles of rainwater trailing behind him. They reached the spare room which had inside of it a small desk, an old couch, a stained coffee table, and a bunch of random office supplies thrown into some cardboard boxes.  
  
The musty smell in the small room reminded Malcolm of the basement. It made Malcolm’s head spin more, and he let himself collapse into the olive green couch that sagged with the weight. His head was reeling. He knew he wasn’t in the basement, or at his house, but he forgot a lot of the details. Dani was kneeling beside him, that much he knew, and there was a towel draped around his shoulders. Gil was in the room, too. Maybe he had put the towel there. He was shivering, or shaking, or both, and he was incredibly wet. He was hearing voices but he couldn’t tell if they were Dani and Gil’s in this room, or his father’s or John’s coming from within somewhere. Someone squeezed his hand, and the pressure brought his mind further into the room. He blinked a few times. It was definitely Dani talking. He tried to focus more on her lips, tried to let his ears stop ringing for at least a second. “You’re frozen,” she seemed to be saying. He nodded. It was all he could do. He noticed Gil wasn’t in the room anymore but he walked back in in that second, holding an old pair of NYPD sweatpants and a hoodie, along with another towel and a pair of wool socks with a tag on them meaning he must have run to the small store next door.  
  
“You have to dry off, then you have to change,” Gil said authoritatively, letting Malcolm know that it wasn’t a choice. “Someone has a space heater in one of the offices. I’m going to take that for you.” He put the clothes and the towel on the coffee table. “I’ll get you something to drink,” he said before leaving the room again.  
  
When he left Malcolm felt a pang of nausea and winced. “Shit,” he whispered. Dani continued to hold his arms, preventing him from toppling completely over.  
  
“What are you feeling?” She asked in a way that made him think of his therapist.  
  
“I feel sick,” he said, using the simplest of words he could think of.  
  
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”  
  
He fell into a dizzy silence as he tried hopelessly to remember. It must have been days. He couldn’t respond to her question, and instead hung his head, feeling the weight of everything.  
  
She rubbed his arm. “It’s okay.”  
  
Gil returned with a giant bottle of water tucked under his arm, a mug of coffee in one hand, and a wrapped sandwich in the other, probably also from next door. The thought of eating made Malcolm feel more nauseous, but he knew it was something he had to do, or at least something others expected him to do. He took a deep breath, trying to pull his brain more into this reality - this room with two people who cared about him, who brought a dry change of clothes for him, and were giving him a place to be where he at least wouldn’t be stuck in his own head. The reality seemed to be morphing around him, but it felt right. He started to think about schizophrenia and whether or not he had it, or some version of something involving psychosis. It must be strange to have thoughts this vivid. It must not be right to hear whispers in the rain.  
  
Dani pinched his arm a bit. He blinked and looked over to her, saw his own trouble reflected in her worried eyes, and looked away again. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he muttered.“  
  
Dani placed her arms on her knees. “I’m glad you did.” He looked at her again. “I’m sure it was for a good reason,” she said, as if questioning him. Gill put the water on the table. Malcolm swallowed, wanting to say something, feeling he had to say something, and found his throat was burning. He grabbed the water and took in several mouthfuls before taking several attempts to twist the plastic cap back on then setting it back down.  
  
“I didn’t know what to do,” he said, realizing that talking helped to keep him grounded in what he was actually physically experiencing. His voice seemed to bounce off the walls of the small room. It was almost like his reality was confined to this small space. He wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. “At home, I... it wasn’t right. It was like time had stopped, or was going too slow. And nothing seemed to matter. Not food, or sleep, or...” He thumbed at his wrists. “...or anything.”  
  
“What did you do?” Dani asked.  
  
Malcolm felt his brain start to spin again as he tried to remember, but nothing came up. Just vacant time. “I don’t know,” he said, his breath catching with the words. “I don’t think I really did anything.”  
  
“So you were just lying there?” Gil asked, sounding upset, not with Malcolm of course, but upset that this boy that he loved so much was in so much distress again. He wished he could do something. He wished there was even something that he could possibly do to reduce Malcolm’s pain, but he knew he was ultimately helpless.  
  
“Moving just felt... impossible,” Malcolm breathed out. “Like I was trying to will myself to float. I couldn’t make it happen.”  
  
“That’s a common feeling when you’re depressed,” Dani said.  
  
Malcolm looked at her. The word had crossed his mind during the past week or however long it had been, but then of course he kept convincing himself that he was imagining everything wrong with him - that he was actually completely fine and could and should easily just get out of bed and act like everything was normal. But then again, it would have been acting, And maybe he had been acting for a long time, and this overwhelming heaviness and sadness was his body and mind’s way of forcing him to just stop - to stop doing anything. There was too much going on in his head so it was as if something inside decided to just turn it off, turn it as close to off as it could go. Some whispers and memories and intrusive thoughts leaked into him sometimes, but most of the time was spent lying in the static with the curtains shut, like he had been waiting to die. Then, after however long, something had propelled him to come to the NYPD. It was as if he had had enough.  
  
“I... guess that’s the word for it,” Malcolm replied.  
  
Dani squeezed his arm again and tapped his chin with her finger. “Probably, but you can get through it, and we’re here for you,” she said while standing up. “Dry off. Get changed. Have some coffee. Eat the sandwich.” She pushed the items closer to him on the table. “I know it’s hard when you’re sick, but you have to try to do your best to take care of yourself, okay?”  
  
Malcolm looked at the food in front of him and felt his stomach twirl, then he looked at Dani and said, “of course.” She nodded and left the room as Gil plugged in the space heater then stared at Malcolm.  
  
“I wish I could do more for you,” Gil said.  
  
Malcolm tugged the towel tighter around his body, even though it was drenched and he needed the other one to fully dry off. He couldn’t catch Gil’s glance because it all made him feel too awful. He felt like a let down, like Gil had expected something of Malcolm that he hadn’t been able to give. He bowed his head as if he could hide the shame he was feeling. The towel was cold and wet and he thought he didn’t deserve to be warm or dry. They all should have let him stand outside in the rain, it was where he belonged. It felt natural and right out there. He could lose his mind in the rain and it would all make sense. Instead he was in this musty gray room and people were trying their hardest to make him feel safe, to make him feel comfortable, and he didn’t know how to tell them that he wasn’t sure if he could ever feel safe or comfortable again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I left a tag but I just want to re-iterate: moderately graphic depiction of self-harm via razor. I'm sorry.

With Gil and Dani both out of the room and the blinds on the windows pulled down, Malcolm started to undress. He threw the wet towel onto the desk and peeled the bathrobe and everything else off of his body. He looked down at his chest and could faintly see his ribs. He poked at one and it made him want to cry. He couldn’t stop shivering, so he moved closer to the space heater. The sensation of the heat on his bare feet was almost painful as he began to regain the feeling in his toes. He had an urge to press his foot against the heater and see how long he could hold it there for without having to pull it away. He wondered if he did this if he’d ever pull his foot away or if he’d just let it burn until someone came in and saw him and pulled him away. The thought of someone finding him hurting himself made him feel horrible and guilty. Instead, his eyes found the pair of wool socks and he pulled them onto his feet. Again the warmth felt almost like an ache. He hated feeling like he was only taking care of himself because it’s what he knew others wanted. But then something had compelled him to come to the precinct for a reason. Maybe a part of him did want to be looked after. 

He slid his pale legs into the sweatpants and found that they were about two to three sizes too big for him. It almost made him laugh. He pulled the drawstring until he felt the waistband tighten around his hips, and struggled to tie them off before the drawstring let itself back out. Then he pulled on the hoodie and felt like a child trying on an adult’s clothes. He caught his reflection in an old mirror leaning in the corner and had to turn away. He looked like a ghost, like some sort of horrifying villain out of a children’s cartoon. 

He wandered over to the cardboard boxes on the desk and peered inside. There were so many different things inside of them - giant pads of sticky notes, pads of paper, various chargers, scissors, pens, tape, tissues. Practically anything you would need or even think of finding in an office was thrown into these boxes. He started to rummage through one just for something to do. He picked up pencils that hadn’t been sharpened yet and twirled them between his fingers. He scratched the jagged edge of a tape dispenser, focusing on the sound his nail made on the metal. Then he plunged a hand towards the bottom and felt a sudden prick, causing him to quickly pull his hand out of the box. He looked at his hand and saw a small cut on his palm. He thought for a second, then slowly put his hand back into the same spot. When he felt something sharp again, he carefully wrapped his hand around it and pulled it out. It was an open box cutter not longer than his finger. He threw the unsharpened pencils back into the box and began to slide the razor of the box cutter in and out of its sheath. The clicking of the buttons was somewhat comforting, if only just a distraction or something to do with his hands. 

When he rotated his body around, the sandwich wrapped in plastic caught his eye. He slid the razor faster as he thought of how disappointed Gil and Dani would be in him if he didn’t eat it - not to mention the fact that Gil had probably spent his own money on it, and Malcolm would feel like he was being disrespectful in some way. Again, eating only felt like something he either did out of habit or because people expected it of him. People wanted him to live, and eating made that possible. He choked down his nausea and set the razor on the coffee table before sitting at the couch and crossing his feet. He took in a deep breath. It was just a sandwich - not even a particularly large one. Some would probably only consider it a small snack before a bigger meal. But to him, it was probably more than he had eaten in the past week in total. He took a sip of the coffee - coffee he could do, coffee felt easy. Its bitterness and warmth felt natural going down his throat. It was anything else that felt like fire. But he unwrapped the sandwich and stared at it. The thought of eating it felt unnatural. He tried to think of other things he could eat, but anything he thought of made him feel sick. Eventually he decided to just try it and see what happened.

After one bite, he realized that to him it tasted like nothing, which he thought was strange. He took another bite, and the closest thing he could think of resembling the taste was cardboard, or ash, not that he was familiar with eating those things, but they were the first things he could think of. He tried to focus and taste the “spicy sauce” that the packaging advertised, but it all just tasted like nothing. It started to make him upset, that his inability to feel anything had spread to the fact that he could hardly taste anything either. He’d take one bite, then another, and still found he could hardly taste anything. He ended up finishing the sandwich without realizing it and found himself reaching for his phone in a soggy pocket of the coat he had worn earlier. He googled “loss of taste cause” and saw a bunch of articles listing reasons such as various medications he didn’t take, infections he didn't have, radiation therapy, and other things he didn’t experience. He thought for another moment, then let out a long sigh as he instead googled “loss of taste depression.” Several results popped up saying the two experiences can certainly be linked, and he dropped his phone on the table almost in shock as he began to realize the severity of what he had been experiencing. A sinking feeling swam through his body as he felt his stomach struggle to digest the tasteless sandwich. He just had to keep it down, and then Gil and Dani would be proud that he had eaten something. He didn’t want to disappoint them. He didn’t want to make his presence at the precinct a burden.

The box cutter fell into his line of vision again, and as soon as it did it was almost a gut-reaction to reach out and grab it. He continued to sit cross-legged on the couch, the wrapping of the sandwich crumpled into a ball in the corner. He grabbed the coffee and chugged half of it, even though it was still scorching hot. It felt right. He pushed the button on the cutter to bring the razor out then back in. It was as natural as clicking a pen. He sat with his head on the back of the couch and he could hear the rain through the small window behind him. The static felt so appropriate. A strange energy fell through him as he quickly twisted his body and shoved the window open. The heaviness in his chest grew more intense. The static grew louder. He felt his heart pounding away as if he were some terrified animal in the woods about to be killed. His fingers twitched around the razor and he stared at the pale skin above his ankle - between where the sock ended and the hem of the pants began. It was only a few inches, but it was there. The static grew stronger and thicker. The walls of the room seemed to melt away and he imagined sitting outside in the rain, in the middle of the woods - a frightened animal all alone. He could feel the static in his body and thought of the tasteless food and wondered if he’d ever feel any sort of pleasure again. He wondered if he’d ever feel anything again other than sadness, fear, or nothing. He poked the skin around his ankle and could swear it only tingled a bit. He was almost starting to wonder if he was still alive, then he remembered the small cut on his palm. If he focused enough he could feel a slight sting. It wasn't anything powerful but it was something. He took a deep breath, knowing what he was about to do would qualify as, and ran the razor down the skin around his ankle. It made a white scratch, but it wasn't enough. He pushed and pulled harder and faster, and a thick red line began to form. Something about it offered some form of relief and he let out a huge breath of air, as if he had been saving it just for this moment. He continued to scratch at the skin with the razor, focusing on the sting and the blood and reminding himself that that made him human - like everyone else - that he was, at his core, like everyone else. He bled like them, and he'd scar like them, too.

The scratches he made became smaller and less severe over the next few minutes, but it was the constant sting that felt right. The scratching was practically coexisting with the static outside, and the static in his head. It was all blending together again, into some form of stinging nothingness. It was normal, he convinced himself. This was right.

Then it came as a bit of a shock to him when suddenly it all stopped - when his hand was pulled away and someone lifted his chin to meet their gaze. He saw Dani looking at him, looking so furious she could slap him, and he wished she would. It’s what he deserved after having her witness that. But instead she held his head tenderly in her hands. “You’re right, you can’t be alone.”

He averted his eyes from her gaze and let out several heavy sobs as he looked as the bloody crosshatch on his skin. It was all so disorienting and he didn’t know what to do. It almost didn’t seem real. He heard Dani speaking to him in a soft voice but couldn’t entirely make out her words. She grabbed a paper towel nearby and pressed it against his leg. “It’s okay,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. He leaned his head against her stomach and grabbed hold of her as tightly as he could as he let himself continue to cry.

“I’m so sorry," he said.

"It’s okay,” she repeated.


	3. Chapter 3

“Press this against your leg,” Dani said, trying to keep her voice steady while hiding how incredibly concerned she was about what she had just walked in on. “I’m going to get, uh, something else for it,” she said before turning around.

“Wait,” Malcolm choked out, Dani’s hand on the doorknob. “Don’t...” It took him a while to form a full sentence. She knew she should turn back to look at him but found herself unable. “Please don’t tell,” he finally whispered. 

Dani sighed. Of course he wouldn’t want anyone to know, especially Gil. She could understand that. She eyed his reflection in the small sliver of a mirror on the door. His head was bowed down and he was still crying, trying to do it as silently as he could manage. She wished she could carry him to a hospital in her arms. “I’ll try,” she said, and she wasn’t lying. She ran into the hallway quickly and to a closet to find some kind of first aid kit. Gil frantically asked what was wrong and she said nothing, just a scratch, then went back to Malcolm and locked the door behind her. Malcolm was still holding the paper towel to his leg and blood had definitely been seeping through. The sight of it again caught her off guard, but she swallowed down her concern and knelt to his side.

Malcolm kept crying. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered repeatedly. It was all he could say. 

Dani grabbed his shoulder. “Malcolm, look at me,” she said, quiet but stern. His eyes flicked up to hers and she tried to keep as straight of a face as she could manage. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” When she said this, he let out another sob and shook his head. “I mean it.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You’ve gone through a lot. It’s okay.”

Malcolm looked into her eyes for a second then looked away and nodded. He was exhausted and didn’t know what else to say or do. Dani rolled his pant leg up and wiped the cuts with some sterilizing pads. He winced as she did and hated himself more, wondering what in the world he thought doing that would even accomplish. What had felt so appropriate in one moment felt so disgustingly ridiculous in the next. He could never win. The sight of his own skin now made him feel sick. Dani put a patch of gauze and some tape over his leg, then pulled his pant leg back down and his sock up as far as it could go. If he kept everything like that, no one would see. He stared at the covered space. “Fuck.”

Dani moved up next to him on the couch as he sat there staring at his ankle in shock. She reached out and put her hand on his knee, but the sudden touch made him flinch away. “Hey, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just...”

Malcolm had closed his eyes and felt like he was about to lose his breath again. He felt bad for flinching - how was she supposed to know that right now when someone touched him all he could feel was his father, or Watkins? She was just trying to help, and he was pulling away from her as if anything had ever been her fault. He pinched his eyes shut more. He felt the sandwich digesting in his stomach and could swear he felt the bile coming up his throat. He took a deep breath and tried to push it down, tried to push it all down. 

“I just want you to know I’ve dealt with people who do... that before,” she glanced at his foot then back at his closed up face. “I know it’s not good, but I know it’s also better than some alternatives, and you shouldn’t be ashamed.” She was wondering if he could even hear her, but she kept talking anyway. “Hopefully in time you can learn a different coping mechanism that’s more healthy, but you have to talk about it, okay?”

Malcolm opened his eyes again and looked at Dani. “Yes,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Okay, yes.

*** 

About an hour later, Malcolm was curled up on the couch, his back faced outward. All he could see was the worn-out pattern of the fabric repeating itself over and over again. He picked at the stitching with his fingers, which had a bit of dried blood under a few of the nails. He couldn’t believe he had done what he did, and at the precinct, where anyone could have walked in at any moment, where Dani did walk in and saw him... He tried to push the thought out of his mind. He wrapped his arms around his head, trying to make the space even quieter than it already was. His breathing was slow and ragged, and he tried desperately to make it steady. Focus, he told himself, it’s just breathing. It shouldn’t be too hard. He pressed his forehead against the back of the couch. There was so much going on inside of him - so much anger, or anxiety, he was never sure anymore. He drew his legs up closer to his chest until he was nearly lying in the fetal position on the couch. He wished more than anything that he could just have a dreamless sleep for several hours, or better forever. He shouldn’t be here. He should be alone, where he couldn’t bother anyone. He felt tears falling from his eyes again and tried to keep his sobs quiet. There was always so much pain inside of him, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get it out. 

Dani quietly poked her head through the door and saw Malcolm curled up into a ball on the couch, shaking. She wished he would just sleep, but she knew it wasn’t that easy. She opened the door more and the noise made Malcolm twist around quickly and sit up straight. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” Malcolm began, consistently out of breath. “I’m, um, this was already happening anyways.” His heartbeat increased tenfold and there was a pain in his chest. “Shit.”

Dani quickly came to his side. “What’s going on?” She tried to say calmly, but she could notice he was shaking again and that he had been crying. “Is it okay if I touch your hand?” She was learning it was better to ask, especially with him, and especially when he was like this.

Malcolm thought about it for a moment before saying, “sure, um, yeah.”

Dani grabbed his hand in her own. “You can squeeze it as hard as you want to.”

So he did, he squeezed it as hard as he could to try to release the tension he was feeling, but it didn’t seem to be doing anything. “Fuck, fuck,” he whispered almost to himself. “Sorry, I… fuck.” He put his other hand over his heart and could feel how fast it was beating. It sounded like it was going to burst out of his body. He cried more, squeezed Dani’s hand more, and could feel how sweaty his own palms were. “Focus, come on,” he tried to tell himself, but it didn’t seem to be working. Everything felt like it was crumbling all around him as he let out a few more sobs. “I think I’m dying.”

Dani squeezed his hand back. “You’re not dying. You’re panicking. Do you have something you can take?”

He thought of the empty pill bottle lying on his table at home. “No, I… I’m out.”

“That’s okay, it’s alright, it will pass.” She could feel his muscles tensing up more and more and could feel how badly he was shaking as she saw him struggling to breathe. “It’ll pass, you’ll be okay.”

He was full-on sweating now and could hardly feel his fingers anymore but he squeezed her hand harder. His stomach turned in on itself. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he said. 

Dani looked at the empty sandwich wrapper and felt a pang of guilt. “If you are, that’s okay. There’s a trash can right here.” She moved it closer to him with her other hand. “But just try to focus on slowing your breathing. Try not to think about your stomach so much. I know it’s sounds weird, but--”

“No, you’re right,” he said through scattered breaths. He tried to focus on his lungs, and they felt like they were on fire. He hyperventilated again, “it’s not working.” The cries kept coming.

“It will,” she kept on. “Slow it down.”

He closed his eyes and tried to focus as hard as he could. After a few minutes, he finally felt like he was getting air into his lungs again. The breathing continued to slow until it felt almost normal, and his heart returned to its normal pace. He opened his eyes and wiped the tears off of his face. “God damn,” he said. “I forgot how scary those are.” He became self-conscious that they were still holding hands and pulled his away. They were still shaking, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as before. He started to pick at his nails in an attempt to hide it. Now that the panic was subsiding the sadness was setting back in as he hung his head. “I really am so sorry,” he said, feeling like that was all he ever wanted to say to anyone. “All I do for you is make your life more difficult, and--”

“Hey,” Dani cut him off and he looked at her. “Listen to me. All you do is make my life better. This sadness, a panic attack - they make _your_ life difficult. Not mine.” She saw him nod a bit as a few more tears rolled down his cheeks. “It isn’t your fault.”

He took another deep breath, then leaned his whole body against her. A bit caught off guard, she wrapped an arm around his shoulder and rubbed it. “Thank you,” he whispered. “You’re too good to me.”

She sighed and squeezed him tighter. “I’m this good to you because you deserve it.”


End file.
